Okay, this is not going well.

“Sorry,” I say.

He laughs. “Don’t worry about it.” He picks up the second can. “Here.” He walks over and holds out his hand for the key. Am I that pathetic that I can’t even open my own door? This is a new low. I must be frozen because Salvatore motions for the key again. “We’ll switch. You take these.” We somehow swap items. I’m carrying all four cans again.

He has my room key.

In seconds, the door is unlocked. I avoid his eyes as I go to my desk, setting down all the soda cans.

From an earlier assessment, I know that Salvatore is very good looking. The kind that would anoint him Prom King—even if he didn’t go to that school—and I wouldn’t be surprised if hundreds of girls slide into his DMs a day. While I can acknowledge his outward beauty, he is not my guy.

My guy is back in Philadelphia currently either passed out asleep or ignoring my calls. Both options concern me. But I can’t worry about that right now—I’m hosting people in my dorm room. For the first time ever.

And right now I am alone with a boy in my room.

Who is not Garrison.

Before I become uncomfortable by the thought, a voice comes from my door.

“Hey, girl! Thanks for letting us use your place.” Tess leans into the doorway with a beaming smile. She has tight black curls, dark brown skin, and wears camo cargo pants with a cute beige crop top.

What I’ve learned after one introduction to my group: I am the plain one. Tess, Salvatore, and Sheetal have trendy styles, where I look like I shop at Old Navy (because I do) in my faded jeans and worn T-shirt. It’s not even a graphic tee because I don’t love people reading my chest or abdomen or wherever the words would fall. It’s literally just green. I’m okay with that though.

“Yeah, thanks, Willow,” Salvatore says as he pops a can of Fizz Life.

Tess tosses her backpack on the floor beside my bed. “Not going to lie, when I saw Professor Flynn’s email, I almost had a small panic attack. We’re so far behind.” Her American accent, I recognized when we first met, but I still asked where she’s from. Atlanta. Born and raised.

Salvatore sits at my desk chair. “Where’s Sheetal?”

“Took me ages to get a proper spot in the car park. Gutted, let me tell you.” A tall Indian girl saunters into the room, tote on the crook of her arm. She’s dressed in Calloway Couture’s latest line: black trousers that just barely hover over the floor and an emerald-green silk top.

Tess grins. “I love how you say proper and gutted.” She glides over and kisses Sheetal on the lips in greeting.

I’ve already gathered that they’re a couple, but I don’t know much more. On our first meeting, we just exchanged names and numbers and brief “where are you froms.”